


carrying that weight way too far

by ProfessorSpork



Category: She-Ra and the Princesses of Power (2018)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Blood and Injury, Body Dysphoria, Emotional Baggage, F/F, Gen, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Masochism, Memory Alteration, Past Relationship(s), Past Violence, Post-Season/Series 01 Finale, Psychological Trauma, Rough Kissing, Scarification, Violent Thoughts, essentially a fic where even Catra is like 'wow dude seek therapy'
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-10
Updated: 2019-02-10
Packaged: 2019-10-25 04:37:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17718182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProfessorSpork/pseuds/ProfessorSpork
Summary: She-Ra doesn't scar.In her mind’s eye, the Horde insignia remains emblazoned on her back: jagged, scabbed-over crimson lines permanently carving Hordak’s wings into her shoulder blades in Catra’s uneven handwriting. The proof of Adora's identity spelled out violently across her skin.In the mirror, there’s absolutely nothing there.





	carrying that weight way too far

**Author's Note:**

> Hoo boy! Title from Third Eye Blind's "Wounded," because as always my naming motto is why be incredibly direct when you could be just slightly less direct. Beta'd by the lovely theseerasures.
> 
> Just a note, in case you scrolled past the tags--Adora's in a really rough place with this one; please be careful with yourself and read at your own risk if any kind of injury ideation is likely to trigger you.

She-Ra doesn’t scar.

Or—or maybe she would, if Adora could stay inside her long enough to find out. She’s never tried to hold it longer than twelve hours or so at most; maybe part of her is afraid to. All she knows is, any injuries she sustains as She-Ra, they don’t show up on Adora’s body. And when she transforms back into She-Ra again, there’s no trace of previous hurts. She still feels the pain, the exhaustion—sometimes pure agony, after a really bad fight—but the _wounds…_ they go wherever it is She-Ra goes, when the substance of her melts away and leaves Adora in her wake. (And she tries not to think about it, because—what happens if She-Ra breaks a bone? Or loses a limb? What happens to Adora, then? How is any of this supposed to _work?)_

It’s not something Adora can begin to understand… and she doubts she’d like any explanation Light Hope would give her, if she ever found a way to ask for one.

It’s a good thing, probably. A self-defense mechanism.

Adora hates it.

In the Horde, scars were signs of lessons learned. A physical reminder: _you made a mistake. Don’t make it again if you want to survive._ She can point to any location on her body and find a roadmap to old training accidents or sparring exercises gone wrong. Moments when she wasn’t fast enough, wasn’t strong enough, didn’t use her head. Moments she used to make herself _better._

She-Ra doesn’t need to be better, apparently; She-Ra is perfect. Flawless. Beyond reach. And sure, maybe in the hands of someone else, that knowledge would be a comfort. Heck—up until recently, it was Adora’s favorite thing _about_ She-Ra. What warrior wouldn’t want to be literally invulnerable? But honestly… these days, all it does is make Adora feel like she’s going crazy.

It doesn’t stop Adora from feeling razor-sharp claws rake down her back every night, reliving the Battle of Bright Moon in her dreams. Doesn’t stop her from self-consciously twisting in front of her reflection every morning, looking for some kind of proof that she’s not completely losing it. That she didn’t make it all up. 

It’s just—jarring that the marks aren’t there. Like it never even happened. You shouldn’t be able to just erase the past like that, she thinks. To wipe minds clean the way Shadow Weaver does, or gloss over trauma like it’s nothing, the way Light Hope thinks is so easy and urgent. Maybe She-Ra is supposed to forget, but—Adora doesn’t _want_ to.

Light Hope had accused her of being distracted by her attachments. But the longer Adora has the sword, the more she starts to think _attachments_ had meant more than just friends and relationships. It’s all of it; anything she might take personally. Every injury Adora endures for the honor of Grayskull. Somehow, it’s supposed to just… roll off her back. Literally.

After all: nothing touches She-Ra. Not in any way that stays.

(It’s infuriating; she can’t abide it. _The world should know Catra touched her.)_

There’s a reason Adora still wears her Horde uniform, even if she has ripped the insignia off—and honestly, she only did that much because the sight of it triggered too many people. It’s important that the Rebellion remembers who she is, where she comes from. It’s important that _Adora_ remembers. Even if her childhood with the Horde was, in hindsight, terrible; even if she knows better now, knows to feel guilty over the things she would have done proudly in Hordak’s name—it’s still the truth of her. She’s not just a princess, not just a vessel for the First Ones’ power. She’s a _person:_ real and whole, messy and complicated all on her own _._ All that’s changed is that now being a soldier is her choice.

In her mind’s eye, the Horde insignia remains emblazoned on her back: jagged, scabbed-over crimson lines permanently carving Hordak’s wings into her shoulder blades in Catra’s uneven handwriting. The proof of her identity spelled out violently across her skin.

In the mirror, there’s absolutely nothing there.

(It feels like Mystacor all over again; jumping at phantoms. But this _happened,_ she knows it did.)

Sometimes, if she’s left alone too long, Adora imagines taking the sword and putting the scars back where they should be herself. (Wouldn’t _that_ be poetic.) She thinks the idea should freak her out, but it doesn’t—it’s only the fear of Glimmer and Bow’s reactions that stays her hand, and _that’s_ the part that scares her. The distance she’s starting to feel between herself and her body; how its integrity only matters because other people care. The way she’s starting to lose track of which parts of her are tangible.

Adora knows the truth: she’s damaged. (Which—that’s normal, probably! Maybe even inevitable. She should be allowed.)

She just wishes She-Ra would _let_ her be.

* * *

It’s not like it’s the first time she’s cut herself on Catra’s sharp edges. Never so deep, and never with such malice behind it, of course, but— 

If anyone were to look closely at the backs of Adora’s hands, they’d find a constellation of cross-hatched, silvery half-moons painted on the skin there. Remnants of a thousand times Adora had entwined her fingers with Catra’s to pull her along somewhere without giving Catra enough warning that she could retract her claws; a thousand visits to the med bay where they would hold each other’s hand through the ordeal, squeezes of sympathy or pain etching bloody divots just beyond Adora’s knuckles. Hurts Catra apologized for, though they’d never bothered Adora.

(It’s a phrase people use, in the Rebellion: _I know it like the back of my hand._ Adora doesn’t always catch onto idioms quickly, but this one she’d understood the second she’d heard it. But then—the back of Adora’s hand reads _Catra, Catra, Catra_.)

There’s a comma-shaped scar right at the edge of Adora’s bottom lip; a hallmark of their second kiss. Their first had been an embarrassing, closed-mouth affair that was over almost as soon as it began, Adora leaning in with one nerve-wracking, flustered _mwah—_ Catra hadn’t even had time to respond. But then, realization dawning on her, she’d grinned and lurched forward, the tip of her fang catching the corner of Adora’s mouth in their mutual surprise and enthusiasm. Catra had tried to pull back (“Adora, you’re _bleeding—_ ”) but Adora, certain she’d never be so lucky again in her life if she let this moment go, wouldn’t let her. The kiss had tasted of copper. They were fourteen.

There are other scars, too. Scratches on Adora’s shins from the rare nights Catra would curl up with her under the covers, too-sharp toenails getting caught when they tangled their legs together—Adora used to tease her about it. Uncountable nicks and scrapes from the times they had to face off against each other during combat simulation. And of course, the thin, faded marks on the tops of Adora’s thighs from the first time Catra had kissed her way down Adora’s body to settle between her legs. Adora had bucked so hard at the unexpected pleasure of it that Catra’d had to hold her down, claws coming out instinctually when Adora writhed against her mouth.

Adora… hadn’t minded the pain.

Like. _Really_ hadn’t minded.

For every scar on her body caused by the Horde’s daily abuses, she knows there’s a matching one borne of intimate nights and quiet caresses in the dark. A lifetime’s worth of loving Catra and being loved by her, written across her skin.

And besides, isn’t that what love _is?_ Catra’s been hurting Adora as long as they’ve known each other—accidentally and deliberately, against Adora’s will and at Adora’s request and sometimes without even thinking about it. Adora’s sure the same is true in reverse… she’s sure of that now more than ever, the guilt oily and corrosive in her gut. Sometimes love means leaving a mark. That’s just what happens, when you’re someone’s whole world. When you’re closer than family.

But at least… she’s always had something to show for it, until now.

* * *

Adora likes charts and diagrams, likes plans. Something she can study and lay her hands on. 

There’s no such thing, when it comes to She-Ra. No texts in the Crystal Castle she can pore over and memorize; no handy instruction manual included if she asks the sword nicely enough. Just an incantation and a body that isn’t Adora’s anymore, a body that’s bigger and stronger and _more,_ with powers she can barely fathom or control.

So they train. Her, and the Princess Alliance. 

She learns to shift the Sword of Protection back and forth into a shield at will; practices using her mental link with Swift Wind. She doesn’t think she could do whatever healing light trick she pulled on the Runestones again any time soon—at least, not on purpose—but she figures out how to do other things. How to harness its percussive force; how to melt Frosta’s ice and freeze Mermista’s waves; how to cut through Netossa’s bindings and deflect Bow’s arrows. She even recharges Glimmer once! (Well. Sort of. Mostly she accidentally turns Glimmer invisible for a bit, her friend slowly regaining corporeality over the course of an hour, but—she’d totally been able to teleport during that time! It counts.)

In moments like that, Adora _loves_ being She-Ra.

But that’s the thing. She loves She-Ra for all the things she lets Adora _do._ She loves She-Ra like her first taste of fresh fruit: the promise of a whole world of unknown experiences. She loves She-Ra like a stolen skiff: a thrilling, illicit thing that gets her where she needs to go.

She does not love the way people talk about She-Ra as something—some _one_ —that she _is._

These days, Adora’s not as certain of her own edges as she’d like to be. The one-two punch of learning Shadow Weaver had the power to alter her mind _whenever she wanted_ and seeing her childhood through Catra’s eyes has Adora doubting everything she ever believed about herself. It’s obvious to her now that things have been taken from her—but she has no way of knowing what might have been erased, or when, or how much. The thought haunts her; keeps her up at night. Was _any_ of her life before real? Can she depend on her own recollection at all? (And if there are no new scars on her body to remind her of what she’s been through, how can she be expected to trust that her memories are intact _now?)_

Finding out the Horde was evil… that had been hard. But these revelations shake her foundations in an entirely different way. They chill her to her core. If she’s not the Adora she thought Catra knew—if there are parts of her unknown to herself, pieces missing, stolen, or so obscured they cannot be comprehended—then who is she?

She has to figure it out, and hold fast to it, whatever the truth is. Because She-Ra isn’t a person. She-Ra is a _myth._ And myths change, based on the telling.

Adora wants nothing more than to be an irrefutable fact.

It’s the only way she’ll ever stand a chance of understanding herself. 

* * *

The next time she sees Catra, they’re duking it out over a massive waterfall because of course they are, that’s just a normal work day for Adora now. A much larger battle looms everywhere around them, smoke and laser fire thickening the air, but she can hardly spare the energy to look around her and check in on her friends—combat with Catra is brutal, these days, and requires every ounce of her concentration. 

Which is _so annoying._ She’s She-Ra! It’s supposed to take more than one average-strength enemy combatant to fill her attention; if it were anyone else on this field she were fighting, she’d have wiped the floor with them and moved on three times over already.

But she’s still at war with her own instincts, when it comes to fighting Catra. Not just because lingering affection makes her want to pull her punches—though, to her frustration, that’s certainly part of it—but because her whole perspective is skewed, relying on muscle memory that is no longer relevant. She’s had a decade’s worth of experience taking Catra to the mat… _as Adora._ She’s used to them being basically the same height; used to being stronger, but not _that much_ stronger; to being slower, but not _that much_ slower.

When she fights anyone else on the planet as She-Ra, she feels unstoppable. Like she’s on a different wavelength entirely, attuned to a frequency no one else can hear, riding a tank of pure light.

When she fights Catra as She-Ra, she feels like she’s trying to sprint through molasses.

“Is that the best you’ve got?” Catra laughs as she easily dodges yet another sluggish swipe of She-Ra’s sword.

Adora ignores her. She tries her best not to let Catra engage her in banter anymore. It’s not real—it’s just another tactic to get her to let her guard down. And when she gives in, all it does is continually remind her of everything she’s lost; all the times the two impishly traded barbs in the relative safety of a Horde training room.

They’re getting dangerously close to the edge. Catra’s attacks are relentless, keeping Adora on the defensive as they circle each other, losing ground with every step. With an angry yell, Adora unleashes a flurry of slashing strikes, managing to catch the corner of Catra’s elbow.

“Gah! Don’t you _ever_ give up?!” Catra roars.

“Nope!”

Too late, Adora realizes her heel is touching the ledge—only now noticing the way Catra’s baring her teeth in a vicious grin. “Too bad.”

“No, hold on—” 

Catra pounces, and they go over the falls together. For a few impossibly long seconds they tumble through the air, limbs entangled, each trying to land just one more blow, until— 

_ker-PLASH!_

It’s all Adora can do to keep hold of the sword when she hits the water—she loses Catra immediately in the sudden shock of cold. She somersaults head over heels and kicks hard, gasping when she breaks the surface. Down here, you can barely tell two armies are facing off on the cliffs above. The roar of the falls is so loud and the grotto so remote that it feels like an entirely different world. 

Adora paddles to the river bank and gets her bearings. There’s no obvious path back up the rock face that she can see, but then, she’s a bit distracted—She-Ra’s luxurious flowing locks feel like they weigh about a thousand pounds when they’re wet like this.

_“Arrgh!”_

…Then again, Adora knows that’s nothing on the misery scale when a few more feet down the pebbly beach, Catra is hissing and sputtering, back raised as she tries to shake herself off. Adora has restrain a laugh; Catra _hates_ getting wet without warning. The sight is so familiar, so endearing, she completely forgets herself. “One second,” she says through swallowed giggles, “I’ll fix it. But hold still, this may have like a twenty percent chance of turning you into a flying rainbow super-kitty, so—”

She concentrates, thinking of how it felt to melt Frosta’s ice, to blow back dozes of Horde troops with just a slash through the air. _Almost—yes!_ A hot blast of air emits from the sword, drying Catra off instantly.

That taken care of, Adora breathes deep, letting She-Ra fall away. To her surprise, she finds that her body is completely dry but her clothes, for some reason, are soaking. First Ones magic is so _weird._ Unthinking, Adora steps out of her boots, hating the way they squelch beneath her, and peels off her jacket and shirt to wring them out. She’s still wearing her bindings underneath, and it’s nothing Catra hasn’t seen before.

Her arms are still half-caught in her sleeves when she’s tackled to the ground.

“Don’t _touch_ me!” Catra shrieks.

“I’m—what?! _You’re_ touching _me!”_ Adora shouts back, wriggling until she’s at least free of the clutches of her own shirt. Catra’s pinning her too hard to allow her to do anything else.

Above her, Catra’s snarling, ferocious and full of rage. “Don’t ever point that thing at me again, you freaking lunatic! Spellbind me one more time and I’ll _tear your arms off.”_

Realization crashes through Adora harder than she hit the water, earlier. The only touch of magic Catra has ever known is Shadow Weaver’s shades and hex bolts—and Adora just blasted her like it was nothing. Oh, she’s so _stupid_ , how is she _still_ getting this so wrong—

“I was trying to help you!”

“Find a new catchphrase, I’m _so sick_ of that one—!”

They roll around on the ground, fighting like children; all hair-pulling (or tail-pulling) and dirty tricks and artless flailing. Adora can only imagine what they look like: wrestling on the river bank, Sword of Protection forgotten, Adora only in her chest wrap. Ridiculous.

_“Geroff!”_ she groans as Catra holds her down, grinding her face into the sand.

“Sorry, what was that?” Catra taunts.

“I said—get—off!”

Kicking powerfully with both legs, she sends Catra sprawling a good five feet. Adora clambers to her hands and knees, turning her back on Catra as she looks around for her dropped sword. It takes her a few seconds to spot it, half-buried in the sand. She lurches forward, reaching, only to collapse down with an “Oof!” as Catra jumps on her from behind.

It’s then that Catra gets a look at Adora’s blemish-free bare back.

“You seem to have healed nicely,” she jeers. “Shame; that was some of my best work.”

Time stops.

The truth of it hits Adora all at once: _Catra_ can put it right. All of the doubt, the seasick certainty that she’s becoming indefinite, the way she’s been feeling less and less real by the day. Her inability to trust her own mind. Catra can end it, right now. Today. Maybe, _maybe,_ if she plays this correctly…

“If you miss it so much, why not try again?” she grits out. “Finish what you started; put them back.”

“Don’t tempt me.”

“Why not? It’s not like it’ll be the first time you’ve had my blood on your hands. Do it. I dare you.”

“Are you kidding me?” Catra scoffs.

Adora twists to look her head-on. “No.”

She fights the urge to squirm at the way Catra’s frowning down at her. “Not to state the obvious, but it kind of takes all the fun out of it when you _want_ me to hurt you,” Catra points out with a curious head tilt—then reconsiders, a lewd grin overtaking her features, fangs glinting. “Well. I guess I can think of a few exceptions.” 

Adora rolls her eyes. “Cute. Fine. If we pretend it’s a sex thing, will you do it?”

Catra blinks, realizing Adora’s serious—and immediately leaps off of Adora’s back, put off by the drastic change in the conversation’s timbre. “What is _with_ you?”

The words rise up in Adora’s throat and tangle with each other, choking her. This isn’t something she can explain; it’s barely something she understands. And if she can’t _ask_ Catra to do it—well.

Maybe she can _make_ her.

With a wild shout, Adora launches herself at Catra, fists flying. She fights recklessly, leaving obvious openings for counterattacks, failing to cover her blind spots and protect her core. Catra puts up only the most rudimentary defense, blocking Adora’s hits lazily, and—and it’s not _fair._ Ten minutes ago Catra was throwing her off cliffs; now she can’t be bothered to swipe her claws even once?

“Come on! If you hate me so much just _do it!_ Hit me!” 

Catra ducks under Adora’s sweeping punch with ease, then grabs Adora’s wrist and yanks hard, flipping her over onto her back. For a long moment they just stare at each other, chests heaving. 

“If you want my help with your sudden, intense death wish you’re going to tell me _what is going on._ Right now.”

“It’s not a _death wish,_ I just…” Adora pulls herself into a sitting position, cheeks burning with shame. Lying has never gotten her far, with Catra. So she tries for the truth, staring down at her bare toes and wringing her hands. “What you did at the Battle of Bright Moon… it really hurt me, Catra. But when I’m She-Ra, that stuff—I guess it doesn’t always stick. I can’t wrap my head around that; I _hate_ it. And I just. I want… If it were _there,_ maybe I could…”

She can’t find a way to say it that doesn’t make it sound like she’s completely cracked up. But as usual, Catra seems to understand her perfectly.

“Let me get this straight. Through some kind of freaky She-Ra magic, you managed to escape our fight to the death unscathed, which is—for some reason—unbearable, and you are now requesting that I _permanently disfigure you_ because… what? It’s something to remember me by?”

All Adora can do is meet her gaze, silent and steady.

“You’ve lost it,” Catra says, but there’s no bite in it. She seems—genuinely concerned, the angry furrow of her brow relaxing into something less guarded. (That’s… probably not a great sign, actually.) “Man, I know I used to joke about giving you brain damage, but clearly I’ve hit you on the head too many times.”

“This isn’t funny!”

“No, it’s not. It’s pointless. Obviously neither of us is winning the war today, so I’m out.” She turns tail and starts making for the trees. “Sorry about your super sad life, or whatever.”

With that, she’s gone, thin frame disappearing into the forest.

“Wh—no, Catra, wait!” Adora trips over her own tangled shirt in her effort to give chase, hitting the ground so hard the wind gets knocked out of her. Growling with annoyance, lungs burning, she scrambles to her feet and pulls her still-damp shirt back on. “Please wait!”

There’s no response.

Adora runs past the tree line, wincing at each step of her unshod feet on the sharp twigs and shale. Catra may be quick, but she’s not _that_ quick—Adora knows she must be hiding in the branches above.

“Catra, please. Maybe you don’t miss me at all, maybe you don’t need me, but I need you. And I hear that, now, how selfish that sounds, and I’m _sorry,_ I—” Why is this so _hard?_ Adora wishes she were better with her words, wishes—wishes she could bypass words entirely, that she could rip open her chest and show Catra the truth of her bloody, beating heart without having to say a thing. “What I’m trying to say is… I understand why you did it. If you thought I needed a punishment, you’re right, I do; if you thought I had to learn a lesson, I did, I deserved it, I _know_ I deserved it, so just—give it back to me, please.”

Silence. 

Catra’s hearing is incredible. It’s a fact Adora’s depended on a thousand times before—mumbling answers to quiz questions under her breath, whispering sweet promises in the dark on the nights where they had to stay in their own bunks to avoid suspicion.

She relies on that, now. Hoping against hope that no matter where Catra is, she’s hearing this.

“You think you hate She-Ra? Try _being_ her. I don’t know who I am, or what I’m doing, or—or what’s right, or what’s real. And I have no one to blame but myself because it’s all my fault, but I just don’t know what else to do or who else to ask. It doesn’t feel like my life without you in it; all these people, they look at me and they see this legend that’s going to save them and I’m just—I’m _nothing_. I’m just some screw up from the Fright Zone who can’t keep her friends safe.” She laughs at that. “Assuming I keep my friends at all, which—you would know—I guess I’m terrible at!”

With every word, she’s more and more certain that she isn’t talking to anyone but herself. Adora can feel the panic rising, crushing her chest as she stumbles blindly through the woods—but to her horror, it spills over not as hysteria, but as convulsive, wracking sobs.

“I’m s-so sorry I didn’t stay with you. I’m so sorry I didn’t protect you like I should have, that I let Shadow Weaver hurt you, that maybe I knew and maybe I forgot and maybe she _m-made_ me forget and I wasn’t strong enough to stop her. Nothing I thought was right seems real anymore, and I look in the mirror and it’s like I’m some perfect princess but I _know_ I’m not, I know I shouldn’t be. And I just want it to hurt like it should. If—if we’re not friends anymore, if you hate me, then—that tears me apart. You should tear me apart. At least then I’ll know it actually happened.”

She hears the _snap_ of breaking wood and turns on her heel to find Catra before her, eyes wide in an expression Adora’s never seen on her face before.

She says: “C’mere.”

But Adora hesitates, suddenly terrified she’s walked into a trap. It’s been so long since Catra’s touch meant anything good. “I—”

Impatient, Catra closes the gap between them and, after a moment’s pause, envelops Adora in a bruising hug. Adora collapses into her, burying her face in the soft fur at the junction of Catra’s neck as she tries to calm down and stop crying. She feels like she’d fly to pieces without Catra’s wiry, muscular arms forming a closed parenthesis to hold what’s left of her in. Belatedly, she recognizes that she’s shaking—but Catra is firm and unyielding, an immovable object.

She hears, in a murmur so quiet she almost worries she imagined it: “Oh, Adora...”

(She’s showing weakness—Catra’s voice should be dripping with disdain and mocking frustration. _Oh, Adora, get over yourself._ Instead, there’s nothing there but the quiet tenderness Adora’s managed to shock right out of her. The tone she’s hearing, she realizes, isn’t sadness. It’s surprise.)

She buries her fingers into Catra’s messy mane of hair, clutching, desperate to somehow pull herself even closer. The pressure of Catra’s palms radiate warmth into her shoulder blades, keeping Adora anchored firmly against her. Safe. Secure. Guided by muscle memory, Adora’s fingers find that one spot in the downy fuzz behind Catra’s ears and start scratching in gratitude. In response, a familiar alto thrum works its way into Adora’s body where they’re braced chest to chest, and she almost bursts into tears all over again; she’d resigned herself to never feeling Catra purr again, the soft rumbling sound the closest thing to home Adora has ever known. She tries to let it soothe her, to quiet her own dumb brain as it keeps unhelpfully repeating things like _finally_ and _don’t let go_ and _make it count, this could be the last time._ It won’t be. She won’t let it. This is where she’s supposed to be.

Slowly, degree by infinitesimal degree, Adora relaxes.

…The pain, when it comes, is blinding.

Without warning, Catra digs her claws into the flesh of Adora’s back and _pulls,_ her nails dragging down Adora’s spine in even columns, ripping and tearing everything in their wake. Adora hisses at the gorgeous, solid sting; her knees buckle, tears springing to her eyes at the sharp shock of it, but Catra is there to catch her, holding her steady when she pitches forward. She thinks she cries out, but she’s honestly not sure—her world reduced to eight thin red lines, bright and burning.

“There, you idiot,” Catra spits out as she pushes her away. “All the proof you need. I _don’t_ like you, we’re _not_ friends. Is that what you wanted?”

“Yeah,” Adora huffs, managing, with effort, to inject some sarcasm into her voice. “That’s perfect.” Standing starts to feel like a lot to ask of herself, so she drops onto a knee. Much as she dislikes the way being She-Ra distances her from the feeling of being in her own body, she’s pretty sure this didn’t hurt _half_ this much the first time around. Some combination of magic, adrenaline, and pure seething resentment had buffered her from the worst of it.

In hindsight, this is maybe not the best idea she’s ever had. She focuses on keeping air in her lungs, one ragged breath at a time. _Ow, ow, ow._

Still, though. She can’t help but feel a sick sense of satisfaction, even as the world starts to spin that much more noticeably around her.

With effort, she levers herself down until she’s sitting on the ground. She closes her eyes and tucks forward, putting her head in her hands as she counts her inhales and exhales. Waiting for the worst of it to subside. _You wanted this,_ she reminds herself. _Stop being such a baby. It’s just pain._

She doesn’t need to see to know that Catra hasn’t gone anywhere; she’s never been more aware of another person’s presence in her life. She can tell by the crunch of gravel and leaves that Catra has settled on her haunches next to her.

After a few quiet minutes, she braces herself and forces her eyes back open—first one, then the other. “…Hey, Catra.”

Every inch of Catra is tense, her ears raked flat backwards like Adora poses any kind of threat to her right now. Her tail curled protectively around her own knees. “This was stupid.”

“You think everything I want is stupid.”

“That’s because it _is.”_ She leans backward just enough that she can get a good look at her own handiwork. The sharp intake of breath is all the signal Adora needs to know that her back looks as bad as it feels. “If that gets infected and you die, don’t come crying to me.”

“If I don’t, how will you know to take credit for felling the _mighty She-Ra?”_ Adora doesn’t have the energy to keep the resentment out of her voice, all but spitting out the name of her alter-ego. “You might get another promotion out of it.”

“Adora…”

It’s amazing, the way Catra can say her name like it’s a complaint and a curse all at once. Adora waits, knowing there’s more to the thought than that, but Catra’s frowning at her, like she’s not sure she can bring herself to say whatever it is that’s on her mind. _That’s a first._ Adora can’t imagine an insult so bad even Catra is wary of speaking it aloud.

“Well, don’t start holding back now,” she goads.

Catra rolls her eyes, irritated. “I… you need _help_ , Adora.”

Oh.

“—Tell your new BFF Sparkle or whoever, tell a medic, I don’t care, but you have to tell somebody how you’re feeling. Because it’s not okay.”

“I told you, didn’t I?”

“I don’t count, I’m probably going to kill you tomorrow.”

Adora chuckles, pitching to the right until she can lean tiredly against Catra’s side. “But not today, huh?”

Catra hesitates, hand hovering in the air—but her tell-tale tail seems to make the decision for her, winding itself gently around Adora’s waist. The hand follows, wrapping around Adora’s shoulders, pulling her just the slightest bit closer. “Nah, not today.”

Adora lets her eyes slide shut again, nuzzling into Catra’s temple. “Careful, Catra. Keep talking like that and I’ll think you care.”

“I _don’t_ ,” Catra mutters, even as her fingers start playing with the ends of Adora’s ponytail, teasing out the tangles.

Despite the fact that every nerve ending in her back is on fire, blood slowly oozing from the gashes, it’s the most at peace Adora’s felt in… ages. Since she can’t even remember when. Part of her thinks she could fall asleep like this, nestled against Catra, the scent of her, the softness of her fur.

_This could be the last time. Make it count._

“I don’t know how I’m supposed to keep fighting you,” she admits quietly.

“Me neither, if you’re going to keep favoring your left side like you have been lately. It’s sloppy.”

_“Catra.”_

She sighs. “I don’t know, princess. If it makes you feel better, I’m not planning on giving you much of a choice.”

With effort, Adora manages to stop herself from whining _But why?_

She knows why—or thinks she does, now. Knows Catra only sees the value in things she built with her own two hands; knows that there’s no possible olive branch she could extend that wouldn’t be seen as a way of undermining all of the work Catra has done, the fragile pride she’s managed to cultivate.

There is nothing Adora wouldn’t do for Catra, if the world itself weren’t at stake.

But then—there’s nothing Catra wouldn’t do, if she thought it would give her a real stake in running the world.

Adora knows none of that is changing any time soon.

“Then I won’t make it easy on you. Don’t think we haven’t noticed the way the Horde has started rerouting supply lines through Dryl. That’s—that’s really messed up, by the way. Taking advantage of Entrapta’s death like that. A lot of people are mad about it.”

Catra stiffens, and starts to unwrap herself from Adora’s embrace. “Thanks for the heads-up. I’ll double security,” she says, stretching out her limbs, her movements fluid and leonine.

“Like that will stop She-Ra.”

“I’m not afraid of her.”

_That makes one of us,_ Adora thinks, then realizes— _her._

She didn’t say _you._

Adora manages a grateful smile, though the act of doing so feels more like drawing a face on a frosted pane of glass. Artificial; removed. “Then why double security?”

That gets a laugh. “Fair enough. I guess I’ll see you in Dryl.”

“It’s a date.”

Catra offers a hand out. Without hesitation, Adora takes it, letting Catra pull her to her feet—cringing at the way the motion makes her contract her back muscles, the fresh claw marks singing out with pain. She hisses at the sensation; Catra drops her hand.

“This doesn’t change anything,” Catra insists.

“I know.”

“We’re not okay. I’ll _never_ forgive you for what you did.”

“I _know,”_ Adora repeats. Her hand drifts behind her, brushing against her injuries. Her fingers are scarlet when she pulls them away. “Now I’ll always know.”

Catra’s ears swivel away, catching something Adora can’t hear. If she strains, she can just distantly make out a familiar sound over the muffled, distant roar of the waterfall—the drone of a Horde hovercraft. And then, a voice—

_“Catra…?”_

—Scorpia, looking for her boss.

“There’s your ride,” Adora murmurs. She suddenly feels exhausted, and lets her eyes drift shut; once Catra leaves she can finally collapse. “Better get going.”

She senses movement, and then Catra’s mouth crashes against hers, nipping and biting in a violent, possessive kiss. The already chapped skin of Adora’s lips breaks against the unexpected, savage pressure; Adora can taste her own blood on Catra’s tongue. It lasts for a moment, two, and then—nothing.

When Adora opens her eyes, Catra is gone.

After a few minutes, when she sees the hovercraft rise above the trees and fly away, Adora makes her way back to the grotto. She doesn’t dare transform back into She-Ra; she won’t risk losing what she just worked so hard to gain. The prospect of scaling a sheer cliff under her own power sounds like torture, so she stretches out her mind until she feels Swift Wind, and calls to him.

Her boots and jacket are still waiting for her, damp, at the rocky shore—her uniform, even now. Standard Horde issue; everything but the insignia.

With effort, back muscles protesting with every move, she bends down and pulls on the boots. Right as she finishes tying her laces, she hears the _whoosh_ of wings and Swift Wind’s terrified, anxious neigh as he catches sight of her. “Adora, what happened to your back?!”

She shrugs on her jacket, grimacing when the rough material brushes against her open wounds—her blood painting Hordak’s wings on the inside of her coat, red on red. 

“It’s okay, buddy,” she promises. “It’s nothing that hasn’t happened already.”

**Author's Note:**

> You can always find me on tumblr at @professorspork if you'd like to come say hi.


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